


migraine

by brawler



Category: Dead Space (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-DS3, another fic in which i ignore the majority of awakened bc that's always fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawler/pseuds/brawler
Summary: The light in the kitchen is dull but it still stings his eyes. He feels sick, his head is just fog; full of shadows and silhouettes, with glimpses of faces he used to know and people he couldn’t save. He tries to shake it off, closing his eyes to rid himself of the visions, but the scrawling’s stuck there behind his eyelids, red and glowing and pulsating — just like all those Markers back on that planet.
Relationships: John Carver/Isaac Clarke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	migraine

**Author's Note:**

> this is a kind of sister fic to [fragments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130721) which i posted last month, based on a hc i have that isaac has chronic pain in the form of headaches and migraines because of his initial exposure to the red marker and the fact that the marker blueprints are still in his head even in the third game

The throbbing in Isaac’s head is back. It was faint at first, like a constant drum beat from somewhere far off. For a while he tried to ignore it, like he always does, but in the dark and quiet of the room it was all he could focus on, tossing and turning under the covers as it got louder and louder, until it became one big unbearable crescendo. 

He staggers out into the kitchen, hands splayed out either side of the sink as his glass sits and collects water under the faucet. The light in the kitchen is dull but it still stings his eyes. He feels sick, his head is just fog; full of shadows and silhouettes, with glimpses of faces he used to know, of people he couldn’t save. He tries to shake it off, closing his eyes to rid himself of the visions, but the scrawling’s stuck there behind his eyelids, red and glowing and pulsating — just like all those Markers back on that planet.

He grimaces, opens his eyes again. There’s no reprieve anywhere, not when he sees it when he’s awake, not when he sees it whenever he closes his eyes. His head hurts, more than the last time he realises now, and he brings a hand up to grasp his forehead. It’s getting worse by the second. It feels like something’s on the other side of his skull, pushing against the bone, trying desperately to claw its way out. It has him rifling through the cabinet above for some pain killers — a kind of placebo rather than any actual pain relief, really. He knows the throbbing in his head goes beyond any simple ache wrought by tension or stress. He takes a couple pills, washing them down with his water, choosing to ignore the fact that he knows it won’t help. It never does. 

He can barely see now, clutching his forehead as his head begins to spin. He turns to walk back into the bedroom, desperate to lie back down again. He knocks against the doorframe as his vision spirals, taking a moment to collect himself before he feels his way back onto the mattress. 

He whimpers when his head hits the pillow, and he doesn’t have the strength to pull the covers back up over himself, so he just lies there on his side, panting like a wounded animal as he tries to will the nausea away. He can feel hot tears begin to prickle the corners of his eyes, because everything aches now — his head, his legs, his body. He doesn’t want to close his eyes but he’s forced to by sheer exhaustion, and he’s greeted by the symbols again, forming concrete phrases this time, phrases he’s all too familiar with, phrases he repeated to himself for months confined to a cold, white-walled cell — 

_Fractal heuristic replicating crystal,_

_Bismuth,_

_Zirconate,_

_Titanite,_

_Sympathetic alpha wave alteration_ —

A body stirs beside him, roused by his whimpering, shifting under the covers to come close and snake an arm under his, wrapping it around him. A forehead comes to rest against his own, and Isaac instinctively inhales at the touch, and the smell of him, of the faint scent of sandalwood from his shower earlier that night, of his skin warm against his — it grounds him immediately, splits and fragments the scrawling. He’s still breathing heavy, straining under the intensity of the pulsing in his head, but it starts to die down now, finally, little by little; the fog swirling, dissipating into a mist, into nothing, the faces that were pulled into terrified screams disappearing until there’s only one left, one that’s not fearful but stoic and calm; one whose scars are familiar and comforting and he focuses on it as he breathes more and more of him in.

His breathing steadies and begins to soften. The pain in his head is reduced to a dull throbbing as he lies there, something finally bearable, the scrawling turning to faint blotches of colour behind his eyelids like red and orange phosphene, just barely legible. 

He opens his eyes again eventually, and in the cool dim light of the city outside, dark brown eyes gaze back at him, soft beneath a brow furrowed in concern. 

Isaac wants to bring a hand up to cradle the side of his face, all rugged and handsome, to run his thumb over the scars there like he always does, but he finds he can’t muster the strength for it. All he can manage is a weak utterance of his name, closing his eyes again, to which Carver reciprocates with a gentle _“Yeah, I’m here,”_ and moves closer to hold him so their chests are flush together. 

In that moment Isaac can feel his body start to relax, like a sudden weight is lifted off his shoulders. It feels so nice to be held — it’s something he always seems to forget how much he needs until it’s happening, and he lies there like that for God knows how long, letting Carver hold him until the throbbing’s gone, until he feels like he can finally begin to drift off.

The next time his eyes open it’s morning, and relief instantly washes over him. Golden light filters in through the spaces in the blinds and he can hear the bustle of traffic from the streets down below. 

Carver’s still beside him, his arm still draped over his body. The pain’s gone, thankfully, though his neck feels stiff. He sighs and moves to raise himself up onto one elbow to paw at the back of his neck. Carver hums in response. Isaac realises he must have woken him up and feels bad about it at that moment. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“‘S fine,” came Carver’s response, his voice rough with sleep. He opens his eyes. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Isaac says. In truth he didn't feel as good as he would have liked, but what constituted as 'alright' to him was whether or not his head felt like it was trapped in a vice. Right now it didn't, and that was good enough for him. “That was the worst I’ve ever felt. Thought my head was going to burst.” 

“Wish I knew how to get rid of it,” Carver says, his face softening as he speaks. “I wish I could do more for you.” 

Carver’s not unfamiliar with these migraines. Isaac’s had them ever since that nightmare all started back on Aegis VII, but over the years, especially since their expedition to Tau Volantis, they’ve only gotten more intense. They’re something Isaac quickly became accustomed to — just like the blood and gore, like the smell of decay and putrid, infected flesh, taking it as they come. They’re so awful sometimes Isaac’s totally debilitated, almost immobilised lying on the bed or lounge, waiting to sick up his food, waiting for the world to stop spinning, for that throbbing in his head to finally die down. Carver can’t do much else besides hold him, or his hand, or offer him water as he waits for it to pass. 

“You do more than enough just being here,” Isaac admits. “You didn’t have to stick around but you did. I don’t know where I’d be now if you weren’t still with me.” 

When they got back to Earth a new chapter of their lives opened up. One where the nightmare had been fought and they won, and neither Isaac nor Carver saw themselves ever walking away from any of that still breathing, but here they were. Isaac means it when he says he’s not sure what he’d be doing if he didn’t have anyone with him now, to help the scars finally start to fade, and he knows Carver feels the same. He often wishes their lives could have coalesced under better circumstances, that they could have gotten to know each other outside of a long, gruelling journey full of so much loss and pain for the both of them, but he finds no good ever comes from dwelling on something like that for too long. It just is what it is, and what it is right now is a tiny one bedroom apartment with noisy upstairs neighbours, but it could be worse. He has Carver, and that’s more than enough for him. 

Carver appreciates the words, feels something unfurl in his chest when Isaac looks at him with gentle, weary eyes, and he wants to pull him in close again, to kiss him, hold him like he did through the night, so he does. He reaches up and places a hand behind Isaac’s neck, bringing him down so their lips meet, and Isaac leans into it. He feels nice, warm, his stubble grits against his own beard and he likes the feeling; rough and tactile, like something to hold onto. He finds himself pushing against him, desperate for more contact, as Carver’s arms shift and wrap around him. Isaac hitches his leg over his thigh, filling in the last of the space between them, all the heat rushing to his head. He feels like he can’t get close enough. 

When they finally break apart, their lips are slick with spit and sort of puffy, swollen from the friction, and Isaac’s left staring at him. He remembers how he wanted to hold Carver’s face last night but couldn’t gather the strength for it, so he does it now, reaching a hand up to cup the side of his face with his scars, feeling all the bumps and indents as he runs his thumb along the line that goes from Carver’s lips up along his cheek. Carver always feels kind of bashful whenever he does this — and always feels silly knowing he does after the fact, but Isaac’s touch is soft and delicate and purposeful, it always gives Carver butterflies. 

Breakfast very briefly crosses Isaac’s mind when he feels his tummy grumble quietly as Carver pulls him back into an embrace, letting him nestle his head against the crook of his neck, and Isaac thinks it’s kind of funny he’d be thinking of something like that at a time like this. He’d be right in calling himself deluded if he thought he was going to get out of bed now, though. The smell of Carver’s skin fills his head again, and he wraps his own arms around him, entangles their legs together, and Isaac knows he’s not going to be moving again, not for a very long time. 

Not that that’s an issue. They don’t have anywhere to be today.


End file.
